


Through the Looking Glass

by paunfar



Category: American McGee's Alice, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dark, Electroconvulsive Therapy, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paunfar/pseuds/paunfar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has returned from the war, and is at the end of his rope.</p><p>He is desperate for some kind of hope. He is offered a solution that may finally quiet his mind and relax his body.</p><p>John Watson has just traded for a whole new breed of madness.</p><p>This is an AU inspired by American McGee's Alice, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, and Return to Oz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Down The Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lifeofamarriedfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofamarriedfangirl/gifts).



His hands would not stop shaking. It used to be an occasional twitch, if he was tired or just forgot himself. Now it wouldn’t stop. The tremor made it difficult even to write with a pen, let alone have the fine control needed of a doctor.

His limp had gotten worse. He used to be able to pound the streets of London. It served to relieve stress, and just allowed him to be alone with his thoughts and memories. Now he had to take a cab from doorstep to doorstep, and even that small amount of movement was hell on his leg.

He had no income short of his small military pension.

This needed to stop.

Something needed to give.

Thankfully, perhaps, the army still provided him with a therapist. He had been through three, stilling trying to find the magical combination of couch, doctor, and talking about his mother that would still his mind.

“So Mr. Watson-“

“Doctor Watson, thanks.” He may not be able to practice, but by god, he earned that title. And he still had a little pride. Not much, but he clutched what little was left jealously to his chest.

“My apologies, _Doctor Watson_ ,”

 The current psychiatrist looked fairly forgettable as he shuffled through John’s case file. It was as if he was wearing a psychiatrist costume, rather than the man owning the persona. His hair was slightly thinning, his beige sweater paired with khaki slacks and a sensible button-down just stacked on top of the  half-rim glasses to make the man, a Dr. Aisling, into a caricature, rather than a person. But maybe John was just getting cynical.

“I think we may be at an impasse, or rather, more of a cross-road in your treatment. It appears that anti-anxiety medication had no helpful effect. In your words it made you ‘a waste of fucking space’. Obviously just chatting hasn’t helped. Some therapists seem to be of the opinion that talking will eventually hit the magic trigger that sorts everything out. For some people, that will eventually work. For others, it is a waste of time, energy, and funds.

Frankly John, if I may call you John, I am of the school of thought that desperate times call for desperate measures.”

There was a glint in the doctor’s eyes that worried John. He was a little too excited. His glasses slipped down his nose, but his gaze hadn’t shifted from John’s eyes.

“And what would these ‘desperate measures’ entail?” John was desperate, but he still had a little self-preservation. Lord only knows what might be out there that someone might think would ‘cure his mind’.

“It may sound a little extreme, but there has been some research into electroconvulsive therapy as a treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder. It is still in the experimental stage, but it has shown to help those who are seemingly immune to medication. I think that you would be a perfect candidate.” Dr. Aisling nodded at him. John could tell he was excited to try it.

“I’ll… Think about it.” The idea of sending electric shocks through his brain tinged everything with fear, but at the same time… Electroconvulsive therapy wasn’t the barbaric treatment that it once was. Done in controlled circumstances, it had been proven to do good for people.

And at the end of the day, John was desperate.

John needed to sleep.

John needed time to consider what he was really doing, and not let his exhaustion make up his mind too quickly.

The session came to a close not long after, with Doctor Aisling sending John away to his little flat with a few pamphlets, a business, a consent form, and a dim torch’s worth of light at the end of the tunnel.

The next two days were spent on the internet. If John was going to agree to this madness, he was going in with as clear a head as he could manage.

He kept looking for a giant red flag, something to allow him to call the good doctor and call the whole thing off.

He didn’t find one.

He picked up his phone, engraved with love to his sister, and rang the number from Doctor Aisling’s business card.

“I think I want to try the electro-shock, I mean convulsive, therapy. I really think it may help. When can I come in?”

John got the sense that he was grinning hard and wide at the other end of the line.


	2. The Pool Of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets prepped for treatment.

     John clutched the signed release forms to his side, their weight reminding him oddly of a loaded gun. His other hand ran through his hair like a sprinter pushing for the finish line.

     The cab was speeding through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic. The driver had a little photo of his two children on the dash. It seemed torn, what a shame. He focused on the children, their smile. He tried to make out the background in the picture. There was some kind of house in the background. Hmm, maybe a council estate. A boy and a girl. They seemed happy.

     He took a moment to shift the seatbelt clawing at his chest. It wouldn’t stop pulling at him. It bit into his skin, no matter how much he tried to pull it away. It wasn’t working. Nothing worked.

     His stomach was rolling, and he tasted bile. He had progressed beyond nervous, and the cold sweat of dread was taking over. He tried to focus on how much this might help him. How it may dissipate some of that madness from his PTSD, how it may steady his hand, and relieve some of his limp. MRIs had shown no physical symptoms, so his psychiatrists had decided it was more than likely all in his head. If he could just walk again, even if he had to use a cane occasionally… He just wanted to be able to move again.

     His body had betrayed him, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he went to war, or if it was because he had come back.

     The cab finally reached its destination.

     The cabbie pulled up to the curb, and pivoted in his seat to request his fair. John thrust a handful of bills into his hand, and left the cab.

     It was slow going, limping up the few stairs to the door of the surgery where he was to meet Dr. Aisling. He was still trying to convince himself that this was a good idea when the door opened, and an attractive young nurse took him by the arm through a maze of hallways.

     They eventually ended up in a stark white room, full of light. In other circumstances it might have been almost cheery. As it was, it seemed like something from a nightmare.

     There was a long exam table, covered with a thin sheet in the very center of the room. It was flanked by an empty metal table that John presumed would soon be covered with instruments, and an EEG stacked with an EKG. The corner held a little metal sink polished to a bright shine, and a  small rolling chair.

     At the end of the day, John supposed, it looked like a fairly basic exam room with a little more equipment, and far fewer human touches. John was used to seeing a selection of magazines, and friendly posters advocating frequent prostate exams and flu shots.

     “If you can change into a gown please, the doctor will be with you soon.”

     The nurse smiled and turned to leave, her long auburn hair swaying with the movement.

     “Oh, and please make sure to take off any metal; watches, piercings,” she smirked at him “it could react with the ECT.”

     John supposed that it was a bit of comfort, the nurse referring to the bolts of electricity running through his brain with a boring little acronym.

     He shed his clothes, his watch, his phone. The hospital gown was a cliché of itself, drafty and thin. But it was his armor. It was his battle shield, guarding against the procedure he was so afraid of, but had resigned himself to trying.

_It might work. It might be the magic bullet. You will be okay. No matter what happens, it cannot get worse._

     He sat.

     He waited.

     He played with his phone a little as the clock ticked, and no doctor arrived. He checked the news. He checked his emails, still nothing new.

     And final, the door creaked open. There was Dr. Aisling, pushing a cart with the electroconvulsive therapy machine. It was a fairly innocuous little box, with a screen and a ticker tape read-out. Its wires snaked out from the back, curling and twisting their way into a little bin that seemed to have escaped from an Ikea. Two of the wires looked to have ended in paddles that John knew would soon be applied to his face. There was another Ikea bin filled to the brim with electrode pads, another with alcohol wipes, and yet another with iodine prep pads.

     “Hello Doctor Watson, how are we today?” Dr. Aisling seemed… Cheery. John supposed he meant to be disarming. It didn’t work.

     “We are ready to get this over with.” Dr. Aisling’s smile faltered a little.

     “Well, let’s make this quick, then. If you would please lay down on the table, I can get you attached, and we can begin.”

     John closed his eyes and lay back on the table. He rested his head on the pillow, and allowed the doctor to do his work.

     “I am going to inject you with a few muscle relaxers, just to make the process go a little easier.” And John felt a needle entering the flesh of his arm.

     All of his limbs loosened, as did his brain. He supposed that he was as ready as he could ever be for this. The machine was humming.

     “Alright Doctor, I am going to apply these paddles to your temples. You may feel some pain, but it should pass quickly. If you don’t mind opening your mouth, I need to give you a mouth guard.” John obediently dropped his jaw, and Dr. Aisling popped in a rubber bite guard.

     “And here we go.”


End file.
